“She is the wife of an official, and falls to my lot generally. I escaped her to-night. See, my uncle is smiling; he knows why I lingered; he excuses me, of course. You are my apology.”
“I must take Major Fairfax’s part,” said the Indian Governor: “he may be late for dinner, General, but he is always first in the field, you know.”
“And the last,” replied Sir Adrian, laughing; “you see I have the best of the argument after all. Fairfax, the soup will be cold.”
Everything that passed at the dinner-table on that memorable day is noted in my diary. I have not looked over it for three years. I need scarcely do so now; for, as I write, the tide of memory swells high, and trifles rise to the surface.
There was a ball that evening at Government House. Sir Adrian brought the young sailor-Prince to me. Clarence Fairfax stepped aside with a look of despair, which I took to be real. The first dance over, he came to claim me in right of “cousinship,” he said. His countenance was radiant with smiles as he led me away. We whirled off in a valse, talking gaily all the time; he looking down into my eyes, and I forgetful of the crowd around me, till I heard some one remark, “What a perfect dancer! so airy—so unstudied!” “A relation of Lady Amabel’s?”—“Yes.” “From England?”—“Oh, no!—an officer’s daughter.” “Not pretty, is she?”—“Rather.” “Good gracious, do you think so?”—“Interesting—Fairfax is taken.” Giddy with the exercise, I stopped unwittingly close to the speakers—two or three showy girls and their partners. The band changed the air to a rapid measure, and I was again borne off as on wings. Breathless and exhilarated, we reached the door of an ante-room; Clarence thought it was unoccupied, and led me in.
Ah, conscience! The bloom of a youthful heart once touched, it sees evil in what it once deemed innocent!
I was accustomed to dance, to valse, to be associated occasionally with gentlemen, so why did my heart bound as I met my father and Lady Amabel?—and why was it relieved on seeing them pass by with only a smile of pleased recognition?
The Governor from India fell into conversation at the doorway; Lady Amabel looked back, and said, “Take care, Clarence, of the draught from that window;” and left us sitting on a couch alone. Her shawl was thrown across it. Fairfax drew it round me.
I had been prepared to admire this gallant young soldier—“first and last in battle.” He had lately been wounded in a pirate fight while cruising with naval friends off the western coast of Africa; his sleeve, open from the wrist to the shoulder, showed that his sword-arm had been disabled. It was a stirring tale—a young captain struck down; the next in command weakened by fever; the ships lashed yard-arm and yard-arm; a swarm of frantic beings, who knew that to yield was to die; and a band of British sailors with a boy lieutenant at their head.
The rover’s crew cheered the boarders as they advanced, the boy lieutenant fell, but Clarence sprang into his place, and led the sailors on. He had observed the battened hatchways, had heard the yells of the miserable captives in the forecastle of the brig, and whilst the battle raged, had directed the carpenter how to release the crowd of victims. His coolness turned the fortune of the day; the hatchway burst open, the wretched slaves, emaciated, starving as they were, mingled with the English crew, and, elated with, the hope of liberty, sprang upon the pirates, and cast them into the sea. The victory was decided in a moment. Clarence Fairfax shared the honours of the day, and gave his prize-money to the rescued slaves.